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Your friends avoid you, brutishly transform'd They hardly know you, or if one remains To wish you well, he wishes you in heaven.

John Armstrong

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John Armstrong
Wish
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There are, while human miseries abound, A thousand ways to waste superfluous wealth, Without one fool or flatterer at your board, Without one hour of sickness or disgust.
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Much had he read, Much more had he seen he studied from the life, And in th' original perus'd mankind.
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Impious! forbear thus the first general hail. To disappoint, Increase and multiply, To shed thy blossoms thro' the desert air, And sow thy perish'd offspring in the winds.
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Good native Taste, tho' rude, is seldom wrong, Be it in music, painting, or in song: But this, as well as other faculties, Improves with age and ripens by degrees.
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Ye who amid this feverish world would wear A body free of pain, of cares a mind, Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke And volatile corruption, from the dead, The dying, sickening, and the living world Exhal'd, to sully heaven's transparent dome With dim mortality.
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Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.
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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
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Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, Is the best gift of Heaven: a happiness That even above the smiles and frowns of fate Exalts great Nature's favourites: a wealth That ne'er encumbers, nor can be transferr'd.
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You can't help people that don't want to be helped.
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Autumn ripens in the summer's ray.
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How sickly grow, How pale, the plants in those ill-fated vales That, circled round with the gigantic heap Of mountains, never felt, nor ever hope To feel, the genial vigor of the sun!
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Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, expels diseases, softens every pain.
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What Nature bids is good, is wise, and faultless we obey.
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Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires rush by their own weight.
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Know, then, whatever cheerful and serene supports the mind supports the body too.
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Ye youths and virgins, when your generous blood Has drunk the warmth of fifteen summers, now The loves invite now to new rapture wakes The finish'd sense: while stung with keen desire The madd'ning boy his bashful fetters bursts And, urg'd with secret flames, the riper maid, Conscious and shy, betrays her smarting breast.
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Then love of pleasure sways each heart, and we From that no more than from ourselves can fly. Blameless when govern'd well. But where it errs Extravagant, and wildly leads to ill, Public or private, there its curbing pow'r Cool reason must exert.
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Tis not for mortals always to be blest.
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Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave.
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Virtue and sense are one and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.
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